


Come Together

by halotolerant



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Experienced Will, First Time, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Prompt Fill, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been long and slow and steady, the rise that comes after the fall. And Hannibal can sometimes, still, feel himself to be yet on a cliff edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Together

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** : References to violence as per the show and basically everything that could be warned for in regard to this relationship canonically. 
> 
> For the prompt: _Hi, if you're still taking Hannigram prompts, could I request a first time with sexually confident Will and zero-chill Hannibal? \o/_
> 
> This sort of got away from me in terms of being flumpfy smut with no nutritional content but there we are, that's what happened.

It’s been long and slow and steady, the rise that comes after the fall. And Hannibal can sometimes, still, feel himself to be yet on a cliff edge.

 

Will – irreplaceable, unthinkable, impossible Will - took a step towards Hannibal on the night Dolarhyde died, and Hannibal’s been waiting for the step that comes after – the step away – ever since.

 

He had never before been subject to self-doubt. The lingering injury of Will’s acceptance is, in the end, more profound than the after-trail of Dolarhyde’s bullet.

 

And so when Will comes out to the veranda of the house where he and Hannibal have now been for two months, cradled in the Mesoamerican rainforest, and stands by the elegant reclining chair where Hannibal has been lying out, reading Proust, drinking a whiskey sour and enjoying the air on his skin where the bandage no longer sits - when Will comes out so carefully, with such measured tread, Hannibal braces, terrified in a way he didn’t know he could be.

 

He doesn’t turn to look at Will. That would make the moment too sharp, too certain. 

 

Hannibal has considered himself in the past a man of stone. But stone cracks, and once it does it can never been strong again in the same way. Stone builds no scar tissue. 

 

Stronger, in some ways, to be flesh, even if flesh can feel. 

 

Hannibal’s body is testament to what can be survived.

 

But he will not survive this.

 

Will’s hand is reaching out, Will is stepping closer and his breathing has gone shaking, hesitant. Hannibal closes his eyes, and wonders whether, if he’d known the hour it would end, he would have done anything differently. He wonders why, now, in all that is rising in him, he feels anxious for what pain and dread in this might be Will’s.

 

Will’s mouth is at his neck, at the tense burning bunching of his trapezius muscle, scrape of teeth muffled in soft lips. 

 

It takes far too long, all told, for Hannibal to understand that he is being kissed. 

 

“Will?” 

 

Will is, now Hannibal lets himself look at him, more than a little flushed, high colour smudged across his cheeks, although that could be the shower he’s obviously just got out of. He went out fishing, Hannibal knows, earlier, after the lunch they shared in companionable quiet, and that activity is usually messy, successful or not, but Will doesn’t reek of mud or petrol or fish guts now. 

 

Will was wearing a towel. The towel is now abandoned on the flaking elegance of the veranda railing. 

 

Will is naked, all pink and white with farmer’s tan, scattered like spice-dusting with the dark hairs of his body. There is the scar on his shoulder, and there the curving arc on his stomach from the time when Hannibal’s heart broke and Will was caught by the shrapnel.

 

How very little it looks, now.

 

“How about we do this?” Will murmurs, and leans in again in a waft of soap and musk, pressing their mouths together with a taste of toothpaste, too strong for Hannibal’s liking but unimportant, now, in the moment of this, this, _this_ …

 

Hannibal mutters words in Lithuanian, endearments he thought he’d forgotten, or never knew he knew. Will is climbing over him on the chair, and Hannibal is being pressed back down against the cushions. Out here on the veranda they are, technically, in full view of anyone on the dirt-track road a few hundred yards away, but no one uses that beyond twice a month. 

 

It could be the stage at the Baltimore Symphonic Hall, halfway through the overture, and Hannibal wouldn’t care.

 

Indeed how wonderful that could be. How beautiful and outrageous. Will would be a tableau all else surpassing.

 

The wanting of this was something that Hannibal had squared away in a corner of a locked room behind a thick door, but neatly and carefully stored, ready to be taken on when necessary.

 

All those locks are broken, now, and he is ravaged and he moans. He puts his hands in Will’s damp hair, cards his fingers through the strands, enjoys the scrape of stubble from Will’s neck and jaw against the heels of his palms. Will has broken into a sweat over a skin already not quite dry, and now the damp of him is soaking through Hannibal’s light clothes, and he’s quite, quite naked and squirming into Hannibal’s body like he did on that cliff-top, like he wants to crawl inside Hannibal’s heart and hide there. 

 

Hannibal gasps.

 

Hannibal’s so hard so fast he almost feels dizzy from it. His cock truly aches, stunningly confined, and he would do something about it but Will - _oh Will_ \- Will is moving over him, kissing his mouth and his neck and round his collarbone and up again. 

 

And Will is already putting his hands to Hannibal’s waist, pulling down Hannibal’s loose linen trousers and freeing his cock into the humid air, Will’s hand enclosing him at once, confident and unhesitating, holding Hannibal there in that square, warm palm with just enough firmness and stroking lightly once and then twice, fingernails blunt and no longer ever ragged with chewing.

 

Does Will even remember when he did that? Hannibal does. Squirrelly, nervous Will with the dark currents so deep under his eyes - Hannibal has rooms and rooms of Wills in his mind, each day’s existence a little difference to be filed away and stored. None of those Wills are any use to him, though, except in guiding contemplation of the Will of the now, the only one that matters, the only one who answers this deepest of cracks through his own being, the one that Will made.

 

Or perhaps the one that was always there, waiting, needing.

 

Hannibal arches back his neck and bites down on the inside of his own mouth until he tastes blood, and even that isn’t as soothing as usual, and as he’s doing so Will is still moving, shuffling to arrange himself straddled over Hannibal’s pelvis, reaching behind himself and… and…

 

Will sits down on Hannibal’s erection immediately and completely, one tight, slick, quick, rushed enclosing, a hot, wet glove, and makes a sound of satisfaction, a stabbed-out grunt of breath, head tipping back, neck pale and thyroid cartilage pressing proud out against the skin. Hannibal’s vision goes grey and black. His mouth is dry. The pulse between his legs is too much, too good, too fast and… 

 

“Will!” he cries - screams - and reaches blindly for a handhold but Will’s too far away and he can’t… can’t even think, doesn’t… he’s missing something and yet he can’t… 

 

Hannibal feels his balls rising, tightening, as Will moves his whole body up and down on him, and tries to speak again and can’t – can’t breathe - and his orgasm grips him so hard it hurts all over again - within seconds of it passing he feels the after-ache in his abdominal muscles from how hard everything of him clenched.

 

He’s in Will, releasing in Will, filling Will - it’s too much, he can feel the passage of his cock through Will turned slick with himself and it’s more than he dreamed of, and he can’t…

 

“Hey, wait, are you…?” Will’s voice comes out of a blur. Hannibal blinks and realises he’s been lying with his eyes shut. Blinking moves the tears and they run down over his cheeks. 

 

He’d be ashamed, somehow, perhaps, but Will has seen… Oh Will has seen _all_ of him days and months and years before they got here.

 

Hannibal’s cock tries to stiffen again, and he groans.

 

“Hannibal?” Will asks, softly. He’s kneeling by Hannibal’s side, a wet cloth in his hand. He’s no longer so flush, and when Hannibal looks, not really erect, and with no evidence of having climaxed.

 

But then, he could have cleaned himself first.

 

“Are you…?” Will’s hand is raised but not placed, as if it wasn’t only five - _or was it ten? or more?_ \- minutes ago he was just grabbing Hannibal and positioning him as he wanted, no second’s hesitation.

 

Hannibal makes himself sit up, rising off the chair, breathing deeply. 

 

“Will,” he says, “that was quite the surprise.” And yes, he is trembling a little but he can keep his voice under control at least, he has that power still.

 

Will is frowning. “Was… was it alright, then?”

 

Hannibal can’t keep that laugh buried. “I would say so, yes. But I could wish that you would have let me touch you.”

 

Will gives another frown, perhaps understandably. 

 

Hannibal is going to say something else but Will draws back, and clears his throat. His nakedness, predatory before, seems vulnerable now. De-shelled. He’s probably wishing he’d kept on his glasses. He is afraid and embarrassed, and that must not be allowed.

 

“Would you like fishcakes for supper?” Will asks. “I got some beauties today.”

 

“Whatever you wish,” Hannibal agrees - to the intermission as much as to the food.

 

For all his hunger for it, he had been prepared to wait until Will was ready for sexual intimacy between them.

 

Apparently, though, Will had not.

 

\- - -

 

Supper is delightful – Will prepares the fishcakes, Hannibal makes a simple chili dipping sauce and some light rice noodles and a salad. Dessert is fruit – a diet for healing on, and doing little after.

 

Will starts talking about music, with some determination, and so they talk about music for nearly an hour. Will eats, but toys with his food as he does so, and looks down and away like Will Graham of many years ago.

 

Something here to probe. And will probing hurt, or could the pain be excised by it?

 

Hannibal wishes he could think more clearly. Will’s face and mouth and the tips of his fingers and the curl of his hair have always been sensuous delights but now, _knowing_ … Hannibal gazes at him, transfixed, and murmurs something distinctly unoriginal about Mahler. Will isn’t really listening in any case.

 

“Do you want to…?” Will asks, abrupt and awkward, when they’re drying up the plates afterwards.

 

“My dear, I…” Hannibal begins, and goes to him, wanting to connect.

 

He needs to connect them; it is unsettling, this strangeness. He had thought them one equal temper of their hearts, perhaps, and he cannot understand what is happening here.

 

Something is amiss between them.

 

Hannibal has never used sexual intimacy to foster closeness – not truly, not sincerely, not in way where he wished to give of himself. He doesn’t know how this is done, how anyone opens up this way – and then in the same breath he cannot do anything but be stripped bare under Will’s gaze and throw himself wide and pray it might be enough.

 

He pushes Will gently back against the fridge. Will murmurs, sighs, and goes to his knees.

 

“I… Will?” Hannibal has been left falling forward, his hands braced on the fridge door to either side of where Will’s head was, his mouth still seeking. Will down there in front of him, looking up, is a wonder of the world, but he didn’t mean to…

 

“I know what I’m doing,” Will assures him, and opens Hannibal’s trousers and nuzzles in, mouth wet and welcoming, and swallows Hannibal down into his throat with the same ease he’d shown in taking him into his body before.

 

Hannibal’s cock is pressed into tight, compact, spasming throat muscles, happy to be there and hardening rapidly, Will is on his knees, Will is with him and under him and open to him and…

 

“No, this is not… No,” Hannibal says – gasps – and pushes Will back, gently, by his shoulders, and urges him back up again.

 

It is because of how much Hannibal needs this, not in spite of it, that he can think now.

 

He knows what he wants with Will, and nothing less will do.

 

“Will, my dearest,” Hannibal says, softly and carefully as Will gazes at him, outraged and afraid and _wonderful_ in that fierce indignation. “I think you have misunderstood what I…”

 

“You want me!” Will almost shouts, rising up now, face creased. He’s trembling-cross and it’s glorious. “You can’t bring me all the way to this and then not…”

 

“I want you very much,” Hannibal tells him calmly – or as calmly as he can when he’s hard and throbbing and his wet cock still pushes out into the air, and twitches with each snap of Will’s words. “But you are behaving as thought this were a race – a race with yourself? Against yourself? Against me? You are skilled in these arts of masculine love, I do not doubt…”

 

“Oh God,” Will mutters, and covers his face with his hands.

 

“But this is not a case of your servicing me and then detaching us,” Hannibal finishes. He steps forward a little and puts his hand firmly to Will’s crotch. “You are barely even aroused, my dear.”

 

Will stares at him in burning fury, then turns on his heel and marches outside to the veranda.

 

Hannibal takes some deep breaths and tidies himself away, washes his hands at the sink and then follows him.

 

Will is standing by the steps, staring into the jungle beyond. His knuckles are white where he clutches the rail, the back of his neck pink.

 

Hannibal makes no effort to be silent in his approach, and Will speaks without turning around.

 

“When I was a cop, back, ten years ago now,” he says slowly, “I couldn’t handle carrying a gun. I couldn’t handle what it felt like to think I might… that I could…” He stops, sighs, shrugs, shakes his head. “And one way I coped with all those things I didn’t want to think about was to drive them out with sex. Sex with men, because that didn’t really count – at least, I guess? I can’t say my thinking was terribly clear, then.” He gives a short laugh. “I didn’t want them, I didn’t like them in my house or for me to be in theirs’, and so I got good at being quick and getting them off and going. And I don’t…”

 

Another long sigh. He turns around and looks at Hannibal, and he’s _open_ , now, and Hannibal feels a deep and powerful relief.

 

“I think maybe I forgot how to have sex any other way,” Will admits. He’s got his tone back to dry, detached and slightly self-mocking. “The women I was with these past years since you’ve known me, it was all very… no one complains if you get them off. Except you, apparently.”

 

And oh, the affection in those last words. Will looks relieved too. He chews at his lip.

 

Hannibal walks over to him, stops halfway.

 

“I do like how you look when you’re naked,” Will says, and comes a few steps to meet him. “I just… I wondered what you were expecting. This is your grand love opera, and you like things to be… perfect. I figured it was go for it or faint on a chaise longue and let you have your way with me whilst I swooned, and we don’t have a chaise longue, Hannibal, which is a whole other issue.”

 

Hannibal leans in and kisses his grin, and they kiss and laugh, a little, and sigh into each other.

 

After a while, Hannibal is nosing along Will’s hairline behind his ear. He licks the lobe and feels Will press in closer against him. “I would wish our sexual intercourse,” Hannibal says, and feels another lovely shudder at the term, “to be as everything between us; a journey we undertake together.”

 

He pulls back. Will looks at him. Hannibal wants to tear his clothes off. He wants to kiss him until he can’t breathe. He wants to curl up against Will and into him and drown in his smell.

 

He looks into Will’s eyes, and wonders how much of that Will can perceive.

 

“Idiot,” Will says, after a moment, all soft, and pinks up again. “I feel exactly the same about you. I’ve giving up doubting it so I think you should too.”

 

“Was that so much harder than stretching yourself in the shower for me?” Hannibal asks, but they both know the answer, and he’s fighting the surge in his throat that wishes to choke his voice on a sob.

 

He draws two fingers up the dip of Will’s spine. “Come to bed and let me touch you a while,” Hannibal says. “And see if I can help you feel this with me too.”

 

He draws Will into one more embrace, pressing his hardness into Will’s thigh shamelessly, encouragingly; they will solve this, however best it suits them to.

 

For all that, he’s not expecting the answering pressure, which this time pushes into the crease of his groin. He clasps Will more tightly, and they both shake, too ready to fall together, always and forever.

 

Their knees are weak. They guide each other to the bedroom still held close, in unison.

 

 

 


End file.
